


Teach What You Know

by LauraDoloresIssum



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Buffy Seasons 1&2, Dracula (Novel), Gen, Humor, Sunnydale High
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraDoloresIssum/pseuds/LauraDoloresIssum
Summary: In accordance with the rules as ancient as humanity, one of the oldest vampires in the world was sent to test the Slayer's worth. Instead, he ended up wrangled into subbing English for a day at her school. And of course, the book on today's syllabus... isDracula.





	Teach What You Know

It was now 8:00 in the morning exactly, and Enlil wondered how he had gotten himself into this mess.

He had just been walking down the street, meandering with vague intent to see the outside of the high school. He hadn’t been planning to go in, not yet; he would have waited for after nightfall to do that. Besides, he might have been observed. A mean-looking little man was standing inside the open gate, right below the arch with SUNNYDALE HIGH emblazoned across the top in menacing all-caps like some sort of reimagining of the _Inferno_.

The little man was shouting to people on the street, stabbing his finger at each of them in turn: “Do you know history?! Do you know history?!” The people he pointed at shrugged or smiled helplessly and kept walking. Enlil smirked, just a little. Of course not. Americans didn’t know history. They didn’t even know their _own_ history.

A car passed by on the street, and painful sunlight reflected briefly off the side of the window like a mace blow to the eyeballs, making him stagger a little. Sunlight may not burn like the old Hammer Horror flicks, but damn did it hurt when it caught him unawares. Enlil rubbed his temple, wincing. That had been when the little man had caught him.

“You!” Suddenly a pair of beady eyes atop a suit were looking him right in the face. In the first moment of connection, Enlil looked deep in those eyes. Those were mean, belligerent, self-serving eyes. He inhaled, fractionally. Bad food, a lot of hostility. He did not smell good, and doubtless tasted worse.

“Do you know history?” he demanded, grabbing the front of Enlil’s shirt.

_Did he know history._

“A little, sir,” he said, in the gentle tones that had gotten Assyrian kings to throw aside their swords and prostrate before him. “Mostly ancient African and Middle Ea—”

“Good, good, nobody cares. I’m Principal Snyder, and you’re teaching today’s classes.”

“Wha—?”

Before Enlil could fully protest, he had been hauled bodily across the threshold and thrust through the front doors like a prisoner being thrown into a cell. Immediately the smell hit him, a nauseating mix of human, coffee, dirty bathrooms, teenage hormones, ennui, and a bit of musk from some attic demon that from the dry quality of the smell had been living there for some time. The halls were long and acoustic, lined with tile and lockers, and Enlil’s ears (more than sharp enough already) caught snippets of conversation from adults wandering around, checking lesson plans and preparing for the day’s ordeal. The little man steered him quickly through a number of identical halls, his hand forcefully on Enlil’s shoulder.

“Sir, I’m not a teacher.” And certainly not by modern standards.

“You are today.” Snyder opened a door and propelled Enlil through it. Pallas Athena, classrooms looked different these days. And smelled of plastic and some truly godawful chemical scent. Oya preserve his nose. “Here’s the classroom you’ll be using. It belongs to the usual history teacher, so everything of hers should be in the desk.”

He opened the desk. Something that said “Lesson Plan” at the top, a large number of books, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He took in the full contents at a glance.

“Chaucer, Milton, Wilde, Orwell? This looks like an English literature class.”

Snyder waved a dismissive hand. “It’s old, right? You know old.”

Well, he certainly did. “But, sir.” It was a statement, not a question.

“One day. Toe the line and I’ll even pay you.” He shut the door. Enlil barely had time to stare in astonishment at the frosted glass before it opened again.

“One more thing. I know you’re an Arab, but try not to wear the, uh,” his finger circled his head like a vulture, “headgear thing. I know all these morons are screaming about political correctness these days, but the students might think you’re a terrorist. And I don’t want to have the parents whining about how I’m endangering their children.”

“I’m not a Sikh, or a Muslim, Mr. Snyder, I’m—”

The door had already shut again.

“—Sumerian.”

Enlil sat down on the desk and folded his hands. This day was _not_ going as planned. He pulled out the lesson plan and puzzled through it until he found today’s date. They were right in the middle of…

Of course. What else?

Dracula.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sometimes, he could _hear_ the old gods laughing. He took a deep breath and glanced at the clock. Its ticking irritated him. It was 7:47.

He leaned back and retreated into his own mind. His body grew completely still. His guise slipped like a falling veil.

_What is it?_

_I’m going to be a little held up. I’m stuck inside the school. You can come and listen at the window if you want._

_Listen?_

_I’ve been forcibly press-ganged._

_Again?_ She felt amused.

_Yes. Not the Navy, this time. The school principal, if you can believe it._

_You’re… working at the Slayer’s school?_

He shared his memories of the last few minutes.

_Think about it this way, it’s a perfect way to take her measure. It just isn’t as surreptitious as we’d like._

Inanna’s laughter rang ghostly in his ears.

_Well, I’m proud of you, dear.  
_

_I don’t know. I’m starting to wonder how that principal stays employed._

_Well, if he annoys you too much, just eat him. That’s what happened to the last one._

_Thank you,_ dear _. I’ll keep that in mind._

 

It was now 8:00. Enlil wondered how he had gotten himself into this mess.

The door opened. He slid off the desk, expecting students. Instead, a handsome older man opened the door. Enlil took one look at him and knew. Quality tweed, ring on his smallest finger, good leather shoes. British-looking face if there ever was one. He gave a double-take when he saw Enlil.

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry, I must have the wrong classroom.” He smiled, a gentle, charming smile. He didn’t seem to know what Enlil was. His accent was polished to a high-bred sheen. Enlil remembered learning every in and out of that accent himself, and for a moment worried that he would slip into it by accident. Thankfully, the moment had passed by the time he found his tongue.

“If you’re looking for the English Lit teacher, she must be out sick or something,” he said, struggling to keep his vernacular as modern as possible. The last thing he needed was the man ( _and why was it always a man?_ he fumed) who held the Slayer’s chain for the Council noticing anything off about him. “I’m subbing for the day.”

“Oh, of course.” He came in, closing the door conspiratorially behind him. “I take it you’ve met our,” the briefest pause, “esteemed school principal.”

“Yep. He’s… quite a guy.” Enlil smiled in his most charming manner, and he smiled back, widely. Enlil looked deep in his eyes. Quiet, bookish, kindly, but he sensed darkness lying deep below the surface. He took the proffered hand with real warmth. Sometimes tangling with the Watchers was an honor in and of itself.

“Rupert Giles. I, ah, run the library here.”

Really. Wonder what sort of books they kept in the back room. He stifled another smirk. “Oh. I like libraries.” Keep the sentences short. Don't use any out-of-date words. “Perhaps you could show me around, after classes are out? I-I’m afraid I don’t actually know how this works.”

Giles surveyed him kindly. “New to the profession?”

“You… could say that. Snyder literally pulled me off the street and stuck me in here a few minutes ago.”

He drew back in surprise. “You aren’t a teacher?”

Enlil made a contrite face. “Just an innocent bystander.”

He shook his head disbelievingly. “It seems our principal has reached new heights of tyranny.”

“Hmm.” Just then, his ears were assaulted by the sound of thundering feet coming down the hall like a tidal wave. He winced and put his hands over his ears. “Has Genghis Kahn invaded?”

Giles chuckled. “No, those are just the students.”

“Dear god. The spirits of the buffalo must be very jealous.”

“Yes, well, one gets used to it. Every passing period is like this.”

“And how often are those?”

“Five minutes long, once every forty-five minutes. If someone comes in late to class without a note, you need to refer them for disciplining.”

“Oh.” Last time he had seen a school, they still beat the children blue for things like that. He was fairly certain they had gotten rid of corporal punishment by now. At least in California.

The Watcher checked the clock over Enlil’s shoulder. “Well, I must get back to the library. Do excuse me, and, ah, good luck.”

 

He phoned it in for most of the day. The students didn’t seem to know the difference. They stared out the window, passed notes, and drummed on their desks. Only a few of them even seemed to notice that their regular teacher was gone. Enlil talked as intriguingly as he could about the books (the talking points outlined on the syllabus really gave them short shrift), and tried to restrain the feeling that he was pouring his voice into an empty void. The monotony was only interrupted by the ear-shattering air raid siren of the bells, whereupon the students got their bags and shuffled listlessly out of the room, to be replaced by another squadron of dead-eyed teenagers. Nauseatingly strong artificial scents, mixed with sweat and hormones, swapped out with them, the only way he could really tell the periods apart.

He was allotted an hour for lunch around noon. He flew as mist through the ventilation system, and found where the attic demon was nesting. It seemed very glad for the company (it confessed to being so bored it once snuck into the boiler room to sample the students’ used cigarettes), and they chatted about its plans to spend the summer break in the bell tower of a nearby abandoned church. Enlil recommended some rock bands.

Eighth period, the last, was now upon them. And there she was, sitting three rows down. He could spot a Slayer a mile away. They carried a quiet dignity about them, a sort of exquisitely controlled danger. Every motion they made was like a coiled spring, each moment spent just waiting to strike. This one…

…had none of that. She was white, petite, bottle blond, with a short skirt and a scoop-neck sweater. From the glance he had given her, she had no weapons of any sort. Maybe in her faux-leather purse. She was examining her face in a makeup mirror and checking her hair for split ends. From her shoulders hung the highly dubious weight and maturity of every one of her sixteen years. And just like the Watcher, she seemed to have no idea what he was. One of the absolute oldest vampires on Earth, older than the hills (honestly, at this point there was probably a hill out there that was younger than he was), who had left entire armies dead behind him… She had no idea. This was horrible to watch.

 _Please!_ he thought desperately. _Can’t you see there’s death twenty feet in front of you? Fight back! Get up!_

_…_

Then, almost begging: _Please get up?_

As though she had heard him, her head rose and her brown eyes locked on to his. For a moment, electricity surged through his body. She had realized, she had a chance to prepare, he would find her outside the school after the last bell and give her the formal announcement about the Test—

No. Her gaze was bored, unseeing. She had no damn idea. For a moment, Enlil was even sure his visions had been wrong. How was this woman even alive? Given that they had the lifespan of a mayfly in a blender anyway? A parade of faces flashed by him, dead and dying on the ground. His thin hand gripped the arm of his chair. Why the _hell_ did he have this job? He heard the sound of plastic snapping under his fingers.

He took a deep breath and released it, exhaling stale air from his lungs. He had no business feeling sorry for her. The goddess demanded service in exchange for her gifts, and that service was ultimately in the benefit of humanity. His duty was to bestow a kind and respectful death, and if she ultimately proved unworthy, then she would at least get to live a bit longer until the dangers of the job took their natural course. And he was sitting in a high school classroom, teaching fucking Dracula. This was not his most glorious day ever either.

The second bell rang. Class had started.

“You know what, to hell with it,” Enlil said aloud. This made the students all look up, the first time he had gotten a class’s full attention today. Faint surprise registered on their faces. There were some whispers, some _ooh_ ing, some giggling. He realized he had dropped his American accent, although they probably cared more that their teacher had just cursed.

He got up and stood in front of the desk. “Everyone, stop drawing. You, you, definitely you, put those mirrors away. I want your attention.”

Several people sat up. He had them, at least for now.

He held up the teacher’s copy of Dracula.

“I hate so much about this book. It is a sterling example of the homophobia, xenophobia, neurotic focus on appearances, and above all sexual repression that characterized its period, not to mention that smug colonialist attitude that was just about the only thing that gave the Victorians an orgasm.”

The class gasped and tittered.

“Shut up. Not even two generations ago, some of you would have already been married. You can _deal_.” He held up his hand. “I could go on and on about gothic conventions, and Freudian theory, and Laconian theory, and Kelly Hurley’s abjection, and degeneration, and colonialist narratives, and the eroticism of the vampire, but frankly, you people wouldn’t pay attention. I doubt most of you have even _read_ the thing, which you should. Despite being told in epistolary, which is hard to get used to, it carries the reader through quite well. It has violence, it has sex, it has tension most horror movies fail to reach. It’s a feminist book, written by a man, which we could make a whole class on. And it is incredibly gay. Oh, believe me, it’s in there,” he added as the class tittered again, more loudly. “Don’t tell me the three brides complaining that Dracula never gives them any, right after he pulls them off Jonathan Harker and proclaims that ‘this man is mine!’ isn’t gay. Look it up, it’s page 62 in your books.”

He actually heard rustling as several people flipped pages looking for it. Many others whispered and snickered. It was nothing too offensive, so he pretended he couldn’t hear a word.

“You can argue, if you like, that Dracula is a sympathetic character. Ironically, I think this should actually resonate more with Americans, because of your country-of-immigrants ideology. He’s a foreigner coming to England for a new life, where he’s sure to be an outcast no matter how many months he’s spent preparing himself to fit in, his native values and noble rank are thrown aside in a world where dress and accent alone will make or break you, and aside from his crazy groupie Renfeld, all the friends he makes, admittedly by turning them into vampires,” he amended, “get stabbed by a crazy Dutch psychologist and his grief-driven friends. He’s not a good person by any stretch, but I think very much like Milton’s Satan, Dracula was written to provoke your sympathies and show the seductive nature of evil.

“And then there’s his opinion on dogs.”

 “Dogs?” asked a sweet-looking girl with long red hair and a noticeable widow’s peak sitting in the front row, looking hopeful. She was one of the few who had been paying attention at the very beginning of class. He glanced at her notebook, and saw she was actually taking notes on what he was saying. Doubtless the class overachiever.

“Yes. It says here you’ve already seen the Coppola film. I seem to remember that at one point, Dracula lauds wolves as being better than dogs. I actually think this is a moment worthy of Stoker. There’s the obvious takeaway — Dracula is vicious, wild, contemptuous of society, et cetera. There’s the obvious link with wolves in folk tales being associated with sexual predators. But more importantly, it’s just _funny_. It’s a bit of childish, melodramatic behavior from a serious character, which the book mostly saves for Van Helsing.”

He saw from their faces that they weren’t getting it.

“Okay. Imagine I’m an evil monster.” He held up his hands in the most falsely menacing gesture he could. “And it’s time for my villainous rant. Every evil monster gets one. I could go on a diatribe about anything I want, right? Social injustice, being bullied as a child, how the hero isn’t as noble as he thinks he is. So what do I say?”

He leaned forward and cleared his throat.

“I can’t believe you people like dogs,” he began, in flawless Victorian genteelism. It really was amazing how he never forgot these things, even a century later. “They’re so cowardly and stupid. You go on and on about how civilized you are, but you don’t have the guts to keep _real_ pets. Wolves have class. They’d never sit and beg for food. They’d snatch it out of your hand, like a _real_ animal. And don’t give me that pathetic excuse about how you need them for protection. I’m sorry, I can’t respect you if you won’t even bite intruders yourself.

“No, get your hand off that stake, I’m not finished yet.” He held up a finger and resisted the urge to _harrumph_. “Furthermore, dogs don’t live up to civilized standards. They’re filthy, they run around outside and consort with other dogs regardless of neighborhood or accent, and they refuse to clothe themselves. Dogs aren’t even monogamous, the drabs.” And by the time he yelled, “Your precious Fifi is living in sin!” they were all laughing.

Well, it wasn’t educational, but at least it was something.

He then assigned them to read the book in class, and they got through the rest of the forty-five minutes. Near the end of the period, he spoke up again.

“Are there any questions?”

A student raised his hand.

“You have a weird accent. Where are you from?”

He hesitated fractionally. “Iraq.” Which was as close to the truth as they’d get.

“Where’s that?”

 _Americans_. He sighed, picked up a thumbtack from the desk, and threw it across the room. It stuck just to the side of the Tigris River, almost exactly where Ur used to be.

The entire class looked from the map back to him, very impressed. Somebody clapped, briefly, before they realized they were the only one and stopped. The Slayer was sitting up in her seat now, finally paying proper attention. Her eyes had narrowed a bit. Her gaze was flicking over his hands, his face, his clothes, maybe looking for a pointed tail. She was finally starting to put two and two together. Yeah, no human should be able to do something like that. Good job. She must have the flu or something.

And then the bell rang.

 

“Mr. Snyder?” He rapped, once, on the office door. Snyder was clearly outlined through the frosted glass. He wasn’t on his computer or his phone, he was quite obviously flipping through a magazine and ignoring him. Enlil considered going inside and having a… word with him, but two dead principals inside of a year might seem a tad suspicious even to these people, and he didn’t want to have the Mayor’s goons snooping around again. That man was bad news.

So he left Snyder alone and found the library. It was amazing how all these hallways looked the same. He heard hushed voices behind the swinging doors; the Watcher’s, the Slayer’s, and surprisingly a few other voices that sounded like students. He lingered about halfway down the hall, and let all the sensations fighting with each other for his attention drop away, except for what he could _know_ in the room.

All books are a little alive, but some of these were particularly so. He smelled old leather, paper, weathered wood. The stacks were all on a slightly raised section, and the humans were down on ground level. Their body heat stood around a table, flickering in and out of focus in his consciousness. There were… three of them? Four? They were working as a group. How innovative. 

He tasted metal and concern as the Watcher tapped his signet ring against his lips. “I could swear I could feel something here today, but for the life of me I couldn’t tell what. A smoke demon, perhaps, or a succubus drifting by. They’re very attracted to all you young pent-up people in the same building, you know.” Unbidden, the word _zipper_ blew across Enlil’s mind. He frowned. No, it wasn’t zipper, there was some other word in the Watcher’s mind, more dangerous, but it was highly suppressed. That fast sideways motion was on the right track, though, that slicing feeling. Was it _clippers_?

“Giles, I think you were just imagining it. I mean, this is Sunnydale, things don’t usually just ‘drift by’. They usually show up and give us all problems, and make me miss my algebra tests.” The Slayer was leaning forward, her palms resting on the table. The wood felt coarse. It rasped under her hands as she sat down.

“Guys, I think we want to worry about the plumbing demon right now?” Tight clothes, layers of them over a pulled-in form, like a frightened dog wrapping itself in blankets. Enlil reminded himself that he was physically in the hallway, and resisted the urge to cuddle her. “Jake and Andrea didn’t come back from the bathroom today. I’m not sure if they’re dead or just somewhere covered in slime, but either way they weren’t in History. If something else comes up, Buffy can just… stake it, or smash it, or something, I guess I’m gonna stop talking now.”

“Yes, yes, you’re quite right. I think that the correct binding incantation is somewhere in my books… What we need to do is force the demon in a contained object and then destroy it.”

“So, Buffy just needs to punch a toilet to death?” He caught a face and maybe half a name, then suddenly _sex sex sex sex sex sex sex_ —

Enlil stepped back for a moment. Was every young man like that except him? It seemed impossible. He gave up and just walked into the library.

“—s, essentially. That could in fact work. Although it is a little, ah, pedestrian.”

Then everyone froze in surprise. There was the Slayer, the Watcher next to the bookcases peering through his glasses at a tome, a curly-haired boy he didn’t know, and (to his slight surprise) overachiever girl. The doors discreetly swung shut behind him.

“Ah, hello.” The Watcher scrambled down the little staircase while clearly trying to look like he wasn’t scrambling at all, and began scooping up the books that littered the table. Enlil gave them a quick glance. Phrases jumped out at him. _Demon_ , _lateral binding_ , _pandimensional evocation_ , _characteristics of bone eaters_.

“Class project?”

The Slayer gave him a quick, tight smile. “Oh, no. No, this is for, uh, the rock band, that we’re thinking of putting together. You know, being… young, hip teenagers and all.” She hastily dumped a pile into the Watcher’s waiting arms and leaned too casually against the table while he escaped up the stairs.

“Oh. I see.” He glanced at overachiever girl. He kept thinking of trees. Ash? Oak? _Willow_ , her name was Willow. “What are you going to be playing?”

“T-triangle,” she said firmly, her shaking hands grappling with the back of the chair.

“Well, it’s a bold choice.”

The Watcher had reappeared, straightening his collar. “What, ah, what are you here for?”

He glanced at the Slayer, who was still staring at him with that guilty red-handed expression. She wasn’t much younger than he had been when he had died. Now would be the time to say it. She’d have a week to prepare herself. He took a breath.

“It’s a library. I was hoping to look at some books.”

“Oh! Of course.” Did he look a little relieved, without knowing he was? “Technically, since you aren’t part of the school, I’m not supposed to lend things out, but it’s not as though anyone will notice. What were you looking for?”

“I’m sure I’ll be in the area again soon. Do you have The Beetle? 1897, by Richard Marsh?”

As the doors closed behind him, he heard the Watcher say, “Perhaps it is just my imagination. After all, it isn’t as though a town sitting directly on the mouth of Hell itself could have more than one or two terrible horrors active at any one time. That just doesn’t happen.”

Enlil decided to just make himself scarce. Seemed rude to stick around after a pointed comment like that.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, cool to see somebody reading my stuff. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
